


Certain Notes of Fraternity

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bribery, Brothers, Coffee, Emotionally Repressed, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 15:26:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4441187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes home from school one afternoon; Mycroft notices something out of place in his demeanour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Certain Notes of Fraternity

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that there are references to the suicide of a fellow student, and later on jokes made by Sherlock on the subject of suicide, as well as both of them treating the suicide fairly callously.

Sherlock is silent as he comes into the room, head raised, chin square, but his eyes down – even when he's trying to act _normal_ , he has his tells, but he's learning, getting better, and Lord knows only Mycroft can tell when his little brother is upset by now. Not even Mummy clocks it like he does, these days.

Mycroft only needs to let his gaze flicker over the other's form – soil on the hems of his trousers and scuffing on the backs of his knees and thighs from where he scaled the fence to go off for a fag during the morning break, slightly sore knuckles implying he fought _off_ a bully, so no wounded pride today, hair dry but for the slight damp from the sweat of walking up the hill, but there's something, _something_ \--

But what is it? He's not been attacked, managed to have his morning cigarette, didn't get caught in the rain or under the sprinklers when he cut across the Kiplings' garden to get home five minutes faster, but there's something deflated in him.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says coolly, and his brother turns, glancing at Mycroft with an almost-innocent expression, his stance calculatedly loose. He's a good actor, is Mycroft's dear brother. It's a good job he doesn't want to waste it on the _theatre_. Mycroft drops the paper.

Sherlock is fourteen, now, all limbs and bones, too pale and almost inhumanly strong despite the state of his diet (or lack thereof); Mycroft is just past twenty one, and he's home for a few weeks, just to _help out_.

(With Sherlock. He, Mummy and Father all know he's to help out with _Sherlock_ , but they don't say so. His parents never say so, although they know, and Mycroft never does for the sake of propriety, for the sake of not _embarrassing_ the three of them. He's the closest to Sherlock, in intellect, in age, in--

Well. Mycroft is yet to consider if either of them **have** hearts, but if they both indeed do, they are closely tied ones.)

“I'm going to bed.” Sherlock speaks shortly, firmly, meeting Mycroft's gaze.

“No,” Mycroft says lowly, but nonetheless as _firmly_ as Sherlock had spoken seconds before. “Sit down.”

“I'm going to _bed_.”

“You're sitting _down_.” Sherlock purses his lips, his jaw shifting, but it's far too late for him now – Mycroft has seen the minute shift of the Adam's apple at his neck as he swallows. He really _does_ need to learn to control that.

“Mycroft-”

“ _Please_ , brother mine,” Mycroft murmurs quietly, suddenly tender, and Sherlock shifts back, surprise obvious on his face; he had expected Mycroft to _order_ him, but Sherlock so rarely listens to orders these days, and Mycroft is too intelligent not to vary his patterns. Adjusting the satchel on his shoulder (vintage, Yves Saint Laurent, 1974. Mycroft had _shuddered_ to see it on Sherlock's shoulder, but he's so far punched out every lad attempting an insult for it), the boy makes his way forwards, settling himself into the seat across from Mycroft and watching him.

 _Analysing_ him.

They share a look, and they mirror each other, in some ways – not in features, of course; Mycroft is a plain, easily forgotten man of soft features, and he is _glad_ of that, for it will undoubtedly help him later on, but Sherlock? Sherlock is becoming incredibly pretty as the days go on, bright blue eyes only coming wider, cheekbones coming obvious and shadowed on his face, skin place, face _symmetrical_ but striking--

Yes, in the next year or so Mycroft has expectation enough of seeing bruises bitten into his brother's neck as well as punched into the features of that delicate-looking face, but that will be considered when it _comes._ Sherlock, after all, may well remain virginal forever, with his lack of tact.

They mirror each other in the glance, full of observation and deduction: they each consume every visible detail of the other, and attempt to predict what's coming.

“What's wrong?”

“Why do you think something's wrong?”

“Your manner.”

“I don't have manners. You said so this morning.”

“Your _stance_.”

“Let me go to my room – I'll walk around with a book or two on my head and _improve_ it.”

“What's wrong?”

“ **Nothing**.” Mycroft narrows his eyes, leaning back in his seat and taking a sip of the drink in his hands – it's coffee, rich, black and decadent, and he can see Sherlock breathe in just at the _sight_ of the steam coming up from the mug, see his nostrils flare as he inhales. Mummy won't allow it in the _house_ , if Mycroft's not there to drink it.

Sherlock can “ _blag”_ cigarettes from whomever low class associates he keeps in the city, but he can't get coffee, not _good_ coffee, not the _best_ coffee.

And Mycroft knows it well.

“Country of origin?” Sherlock asks quietly. He knows precisely what Mycroft's offering in that delicate sip, and precisely what he wants in return: it's not an offer he's willing to decline so quickly. It's upsetting, sometimes, to watch Sherlock pass through academia – he's brilliant, of course, passes every exam with ease and then _deletes_ what information he decides he has no need of, but school does bore him, and games with Mycroft excite him more than they ought.

But then, Mycroft went through the whole thing himself, and he's not really made “friends” either.

“You tell me,” Mycroft allows, and he pushes the mug across the table. Sherlock bends that graceful neck of his and breathes in deeply, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment with pure _bliss_. Their parents are in North Wales for the moment, on some form of positively depressing kayaking holiday, and there's no one to catch Sherlock enjoying the beautiful, beautiful joy of caffeine without them finding out.

Mycroft oughtn't encourage it, really, but there are a _lot_ of things he oughtn't encourage, and yet he does.

“Ethiopia,” Sherlock says, half-breathlessly.

“And?” The prompt comes quickly. The answer is quicker.

“Yirgacheffe, south of the Ethiopian capital.”

“And?”

“Hand-picked, washed, fermented. Processed wet. Roasted to a medium light.” All that from just a _sniff_. Mycroft must always marvel at Sherlock's senses – they're more particular than Mycroft's own, more able to differentiate between the most minute differences, although Sherlock lacks the natural social etiquette Mycroft easily possesses, and isn't nearly so delicate.

“Very good.” Sherlock looks up from the coffee, eyes half-lidded, and he looks at Mycroft's face again, looking at his mouth, his noses, his lips, his brow, his chin. Sherlock frowns.

“Tell me what's wrong, Sherlock,” Mycroft asks quietly once more, and Sherlock reaches for the mug, cupping his hands about it.

“Margaret Geraldson killed herself.” Sherlock says, staring down at the coffee instead of at Mycroft's face. Now, Mycroft frowns too. He's _heard_ of this girl – in the sixth form a few streets from , Bs and Cs in her AS Levels, decreed by Sherlock as deceptively not interesting.

“You're upset?” Mycroft asks, the question delicately posed. Sherlock had been in pieces when they'd put Red Beard down a few years ago, but he usually deals with grief precisely as Mycroft does: quietly, with dignity, and without tears. But this isn't grief. This is something _else_ , this is… **Contemplation**.

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Then _what,_ Sherlock? What's affected you so deeply about this girl?” Sherlock turns his head, obviously not wishing to lay a vulnerability on the table between them, but he's not had a cup of real coffee in months, and he does so _want_ for little luxuries when Mycroft's not here to spoil him.

“She published poetry,”

“Poetry?” Mycroft repeats.

“I'm not finished!” Sherlock snaps at him, and then continues, “She published poetry. Three anthologies, and two of them were reviewed highly by _The Times._ ”

“Margaret Geraldson?” Mycroft repeats doubtfully, drawing an afternoon slice of toast to his mouth – he knows every name that appears in _The Times,_ and he'd have recognized so ordinary a name.

“Pen name – Philip Highgarden,” Sherlock corrects him. A lesser man might have spat out his toast, or perhaps choked upon it, but Mycroft chews the piece in his mouth, swallows, and then breathes out.

“Philip **Highgarden** got Bs and Cs that awful little sixth form?” Sherlock mutely nods his head, and Mycroft nearly _shudders_ at the thought, but he supposes there are gems to be found in unexpected places: the man (or, so it happens, _girl_ ) has been all over various poetry collections for the past few years, perfectly breathtaking with a modern yet _striking_ poetic voice--

And she's killed herself.

“But she published poetry and I met her a few weeks ago at this party-”

“What party?” Mycroft asks suddenly, mildly alarmed, but Sherlock almost _spits_ at him.

“Shut up! You wanted me to tell you, Mycroft, and I'm telling you!” Sherlock huffs out a noise, drawing the mug closer to him as if to prevent Mycroft from snatching it away (as if he'd risk breaking his favourite mug in the scuffle), and then says, “I met her a few weeks ago at this party, and I was a little high-” Mycroft opens his mouth, but Sherlock shoots him such a _scathing_ look that Mycroft shuts it again, with a mocking raise of his eyebrows to accompany the sudden purse of his lips. “And she was drunk, just drunk, and she sort of grabbed me by the face--”

Sherlock looks into the middle distance, and Mycroft knows what he's doing, knows that he's drawing out the memory to quote her word for word, to mimic her inflection: he knows that Mycroft's far better at pretending to be a person than he is, and he wants the proper analysis if he has to have it at all. “Do you know, little Sherlock, that's the problem with people like us. They call us geniuses, and we get bored. And we get bored, and we get bored, and we find something that takes the edge off, and then we drink, and then we sober up, and we get bored again. We get drunk, and high, and it's never enough – none of it's ever enough, and all of it's too much, so we try and kill ourselves, and some guardian angel _fucker_ comes in and saves us, thinks he's done the world a favour, and then we try again because we can't bloody do it when nothing ever _happens_.”

Mycroft breathes in, slowly – if this depressive idiot wasn't already dead, he'd _kill_ her. Sherlock seems less fazed, now he's recited this poet's last words to him, and he sips at the coffee, letting out an appreciative grunt at the taste of it on his tongue.

“A suicidal idiot told you she wanted to end her life, and then _did_. Pray, brother mine, what is so upsetting?”

“I don't know,” Sherlock lies. Mycroft knows what's upsetting, why Sherlock's agreed to tell him in the first place rather than telling him to shove off and run up to his own room. _If it was all too boring for her, and she killed herself, what hope have we got?_ They've _always_ had each other, really, always kept together and bounced ideas off each other: they'd grown up together, Mycroft admittedly more so, and the tiny minds of _other_ children had shocked the both of them, once they'd been exposed.

But this is something rather different.

“Are you going to kill yourself?” Mycroft asks bluntly.

“Have we got any aspirin?” Sherlock asks in an equally straight-forward tone.

“ _No_.”

“Then no. Apparently it's not as easy if you've not got aspirin,” Sherlock says blandly.

“That's not funny, Sherlock-”

“Who says it's funny? I'm not saying it's funny – I'm not laughing.” Sherlock isn't laughing, but he's close to it at his little crack about thinning out his blood to better kill himself with, his lips twitching behind Mycroft's mug. Mycroft is glad, nonetheless, that he's so quickly altered the subject to something less thoughtful, but the worry remains.

Sherlock sets the mug down, and Mycroft knows without looking at it that there's no more coffee in it. The younger boy stands, shouldering his bag again (“That's not for _men_ , Sherlock.” “So?” “You'll be like Uncle Rudy.” “Uncle Rudy wears nicer shoes than _you_ do, Mycroft.” “A _woman's_ shoes.” “I think you'll find they're _his_ , actually.”) and moving to walk past, but Mycroft stops him.

“Sherlock, come here. You've something on your face,” Mycroft says lowly, voice full of a mildly exasperated concern, and Sherlock _rolls his eyes_ , but steps closer nonetheless – he's not touched often, and while Mycroft wouldn't think of him as touch-starved, he does seek it out such affection when it's offered.

Mycroft reaches out as if to wipe his face, and then grabs Sherlock by his uniform collar and pulling him close, cupping ( ~~ _clutching_~~ ) at the back of his head and drawing his lips against the other's temple.

“ **Mycroft!”** Sherlock protests sharply, but he stands still nonetheless as Mycroft holds him as tightly as he can _manage_ for a moment or two, and then releases him, turning in one smooth motion to pick up his paper again.

“Off to bed with you, then.”

“It's four o'clock in the afternoon!”

“You told me you were going to bed. And you've not slept since Tuesday.”

“Well--” Sherlock half-agrees, head tilting in the affirmative, and then he strides up the stairs. Mycroft stands, catching the mug to rinse under the sink, and he listens to Sherlock's feet on the floor above his head, hears the almost-silent _creak_ of the floor as a too-thin frame lands on a canopied bed.

He'll be alright, Mycroft's almost certain. If that girl was too intelligent and too easily bored to live, then Sherlock is most _certainly_ too intelligent and too easily bored to do something so domestic as _dying_.

Such a shame about Highgarden, though. Mycroft had rather enjoyed the last two or three poems. 

 


End file.
